Under the Spanish Stars (37 page)

Except for one thing.

Charlotte arrived at the Cemetery of San José de Granada with the beginnings of a stress headache. Studying the map, she could barely read the lettering on the printout she'd obtained at the library, her grand idea to visit the office of the cemetery for a map having fallen flat. The office door had remained unanswered and she didn't want to waste valuable time waiting around for someone to return.

Making her way along the well-kept paths, she marvelled at the beautiful angel statues, grassy sections and marble mausoleums. Scattered between the huge monuments lay smaller gravesites, some with names and others without. The calming sound of running water in fountains surrounded her as a light breeze gave respite from the hot sun. An older couple came into view, carrying flowers and rosary beads, their heads bowed.

Since she was a child, she and Abuela had spent countless hours in cemeteries, reading names, dates and speculating on what kind of life the person had lived. They never gravitated to the famous people, but instead, preferred to visit the lesser-known occupants, ones whose lives were just as important and valuable as their well-known counterparts. This cemetery visit, however, held greater significance and as she walked along the pathways and inspected the names, a heavy eeriness wrapped around her. Charlotte had never experienced this before and she had to stop to take a few deep breaths. Dread shot through her, memories surfacing of that day her grandmother had been rushed to hospital and their lives had changed forever. That was the first time she'd had to face the idea that Abuela wouldn't be around forever and like then, and now, the thought scared her.

Stop it!

Charlotte wove up and down and across the paths, searching for Raul José Sierra Abano, but she had no luck. She searched for another hour even though the heat of the day made her thirsty and the intense sun burned her skin. Glancing down, she noticed the telltale redness that meant she'd soon resemble a lobster if she didn't add some protection. Although it could be a case of too little, too late. Australia had always proven a challenge for her complexion and she'd grown accustomed to carrying a tube of sunscreen in her bag, even in winter. Stopping, she placed her bag on the ground and knelt down as she fished around for sunscreen. The ziplock bag fell out and a small breeze blew it a few metres away, her grandmother's precious words tumbling through the cemetery. Charlotte rushed over and grabbed it but lost her balance and fell on her knees and hands. Sharp stones pressed into her flesh and she brushed them off, the pain subsiding after a few seconds. Shaking her head, she moved to get up, but out of the corner of her eye spied the letters A-B-A-N-O.

‘No way.' She clutched the plastic bag and edged back to get a better look at the jet-black shiny marble with gold lettering. The headpiece was simple in design, but elegant.

Helena Ruiz Sierra Abano

01/05/1898 – 17/09/1933

Charlotte picked up her handbag and started hunting for more Abanos. The gravestones were in a small, sectioned-off area so Charlotte walked around the grassy square, studying the names, and dates of birth and death, some of them from many generations before.

‘He has to be here,' she said, squinting from the bright sunlight reflecting off the stones. A moment later her eyes focussed on what had eluded her only minutes before. A handful of light red carnations lay on lovely dove-grey marble, the letters carved out in the stone and filled in with black.

Raul José Sierra Abano

04/12/1919 – 09/08/2015

‘Hi Raul. Nice to finally meet you.' She knelt in front of the stone, trying to ignore the pain of her newly bruised knees. ‘I don't know if you speak English, or if in heaven you can understand every language, but my grandmother, Katarina Sanchez, wrote you a letter a long time ago and she's waited until the time was right for you to receive it—which, as you've
probably guessed, is now. I don't know why she thought you had died all those years ago and I have a horrible feeling if I tell her the truth it could make her more ill than she already is.' Charlotte sat back on her haunches. ‘Raul, what would you do?'

She didn't expect an answer but she felt better for voicing her thoughts out loud. Charlotte missed not having Mateo around to willingly listen and offer sage advice. After this morning, though, she felt further away from him than when she was in Australia.

More people appeared and slowly walked past where she sat. They gave a cursory glance, but kept going, immersed in their own thoughts, sadness and broken hearts.

‘Here.' Temptation nagged for a split second but this was Abuela's letter to Raul and if her grandmother had wanted her to know the contents, she would have let Charlotte read it. She slipped the ziplock bag in the narrow space between the headstone and the vase that formed part of the monument. ‘Sorry about the plastic, but it needs to be protected from the elements. I'd dig a little hole and put it in there for you to keep but I'm not so sure the authorities would be very impressed.' Her lips turned into a small smile. ‘Raul José Sierra Abano, you had a special place in my grandmother's heart so for that reason, I pay my respects. I'm sorry we never got to meet.' She took a deep breath, puzzled by the sadness overwhelming her. ‘I hope you had a good life, Raul.'

Charlotte stood and took a moment, saying a little prayer for Raul, even though she wasn't religious. For a fleeting moment she contemplated taking a photo of the tombstone for Abuela, but it didn't feel right. Anyway, her grandmother had asked her to deliver a letter, not be a paparazzo.

As she meandered towards the main gate, Charlotte caught sight of a tall, beautiful woman carrying a large bunch of roses that matched her hot pink lips.

‘Felicidad,' she whispered, then a pang of guilt stabbed her. Charlotte's earlier visit had probably triggered a tsunami of emotions for the poor woman and the only way to work through them was to visit her father.

Ducking down a pathway with high-walled tombs on either side, Charlotte peered around the corner and watched Felicidad wind along the paths.

Shit.

Charlotte should have thought Felicidad might turn up at some stage, and now Abuela's letter ran the risk of being taken away. As Felicidad moved through the cemetery and towards her father's burial place, Charlotte snuck between tombs and trees, determined to stay out of sight. When Felicidad reached Raul's grave, she bent over and placed the flowers then stood, dabbing her eyes with a handkerchief as tiny sobs drifted through the air. Making the sign of the cross, she turned and took a few steps then spun back, her perfect face marred by a frown. Leaning forward, she grabbed the plastic bag Charlotte had stashed and turned it over in her hands. Felicidad looked around first then undid the ziplock and used her long, perfectly manicured thumbnail to pry open the back of the envelope.

Shit.

Shit.

Shit.

Felicidad pulled out the paper, unfolded it with care and stood reading the letter a young Katarina Sanchez had written decades ago. Charlotte watched for a moment. She could understand Felicidad's curiosity at wanting to know why someone would leave a letter for her father, but the letter had been from Abuela to Raul, not Felicidad.

‘Excuse me.' Charlotte stepped out from her hiding place and Felicidad put both hands behind her back. ‘That is for your
padre
, Raul.'

The woman looked at her, blinking rapidly. ‘Sorry.'

‘You speak English?'

Felicidad held her thumb and index fingers together. ‘Little.'

‘Did you understand me before?'

Felicidad looked at her with wide eyes. ‘
Inglés
. Little.' She brought her hand from around her back and waved the envelope. ‘This. For. You. Abuela.'

‘This letter is
from
my Abuela to your father.'

Felicidad nodded. ‘
Entiendo
. I understand. I have letter for your
abuela
.'

‘What?'

‘
En mi casa
.' She waved the letter in the air. ‘
Ven conmigo
.'

Felicidad's demeanour had changed dramatically and Charlotte suspected it had little to do with time and a lot to do with the letter Abuela had written. Felicidad placed the missive back in the envelope
then in the plastic bag and returned it to where Charlotte had originally stashed it. This simple gesture showed Charlotte she could trust this woman and any anger Felicidad had felt towards her had dissipated. As they walked away, Charlotte glanced back at the envelope, wishing she knew what it was inside that had changed Felicidad's mind. Although Charlotte respected Abuela's privacy, she was thankful Felicidad hadn't, because otherwise she wouldn't be winding through the streets towards the house that belonged to the daughter of Raul José Sierra Abano.

They walked for nearly forty minutes, navigating alleys and crossing small plazas. Charlotte didn't speak, lost in her own thoughts and she imagined Felicidad was doing the same. Turning the corner, they stopped in front of the shiny black door of an immaculately kept house. Felicidad rummaged in her handbag then finally produced a set of keys. Sliding them into the lock, it clicked open and Felicidad entered, gesturing for Charlotte to do the same.

The hallway was dark and drab, the walls painted a strange rust-brown. They turned right and entered a room with sunny yellow walls and orange and red cushions on a funky purple velour couch. Although it looked modern, the room had a faint musty smell.

‘You have a lovely place,' Charlotte said, feeling uneasy.

‘
Gracias
. House me,' she pointed to herself, ‘
y mi padre
, Raul.'

She pointed towards the couch and Charlotte dutifully sat. Felicidad disappeared from the room, her heels clicking along the floorboards and then ascending a staircase. A few moments later footsteps could be heard overhead, along with muttering. Charlotte recognised some of the words as choice Spanish phrases she'd heard Mateo spit out in times of frustration.

Mateo.

Why hadn't he called?

Pulling out the phone, she unlocked the screen that displayed missed calls.

‘Damn.'

Charlotte checked the side of the phone and sure enough, she'd had it on vibrate since the library this morning. With all the walking she'd been doing no wonder she didn't feel it ring. What an idiot. Dialling voicemail, she waited for it to play.

You have two new messages …

Two?

From Mateo two hours ago—‘I am coming. I promise.'

From Mateo ten minutes ago—‘I am sorry, Charlotte. I cannot be in your company today.'

Annoyed about missing his calls and even more cranky about him not offering a decent reason for standing her up, she shoved the phone in her handbag and scanned the room for photos. A cluster of framed black-and-white and colour images sat in the corner so she got up and studied the photographic history. A little girl with a young couple at the beach; the girl a few years older on a horse with a handsome man by her side; graduation of the girl, now older, still attractive; Felicidad dressed as a bride, and an older man, most likely Raul, with his arm around her, their smiles matching; Felicidad holding a baby—

The sound of Felicidad clearing her throat filled the room.

Standing upright, Charlotte said, ‘I'm sorry. I was just looking—'

‘Is okay.' She gestured towards the couch. ‘Come.'

They sat and Felicidad placed a guitar case across Charlotte's lap. Raul's daughter nodded towards it and Charlotte ran her fingers along the battered casing, stopping at a small dent.

‘Gun …
pew-pew
,' Felicidad said. ‘No all way.
Guitarra
safe.'

Quickly taking her finger off the dent, Charlotte tentatively opened up the case. A stunningly preserved guitar, its wood as shiny and perfect as if it were brand new, sat comfortably inside the well-padded case. Between the instrument and the case were fifty or sixty envelopes, in varying shades of off-white through to yellow. She pulled an envelope out. In spidery writing were the words:

Para Katarina Sanchez

Charlotte blinked then gingerly reached into the guitar case and retrieved more. All of them were addressed to Abuela.

Indicating that she wished to open an envelope, Charlotte asked, ‘May I?'

Felicidad nodded, a sad smile gracing her still very hot pink lips. It felt wrong to be opening Raul's correspondence after admonishing Felicidad for reading Abuela's, but Felicidad appeared keen for Charlotte to inspect the contents.

With great care, she undid the envelope and slid the letter out. The date
was 30
^th
August, 1948, and the letter began
Querida Katarina
and was signed,
siempre tuyo
,
Raul
. Charlotte scanned for words she recognised—heart, love, always, my soul. Pulling out another letter, she read the contents and it was similar to the one before. This time the date read 30
^th
August, 1955. Carefully extracting more letters from more envelopes, Charlotte quickly had a pile of missives to Katarina, from Raul, all dated the 30
^th
August and spanning decades.

‘Una carta por cada año
.
'
Felicidad held up a finger, indicating one letter for every year.
‘Por tu abuela, Katarina
. ¿
Qué romántico, no?'

‘Very romantic.' Although why would a man who had a wife and daughter write to another woman every single year? And why didn't he send them? Although the same could be said about Abuela—why had she held onto that one letter for Raul? And most important of all, why did she think he was dead?

‘
Mi padre y Katarina …
' Felicidad swallowed, her eyes glassy.

Charlotte squeezed this lovely woman's hand. ‘I know this is hard. I'm sorry.'